Mavericks eBook

PHYLLIS

Phyllis leaned against the door-jamb and looked down
the long road which wound up from the valley and lost
itself now and again in the land waves. Miles
away she could see a little cloud of dust travelling
behind the microscopic stage, which moved toward her
almost as imperceptibly as the minute-hand of a clock.
A bronco was descending the hill trail from the Flagstaff
mine, and its rider announced his coming with song
in a voice young and glad.

If the girl heard, she heeded not. One might
have guessed her a sullen, silent lass, and would
have done her less than justice. For the storm
in her eyes and the curl of the lip were born of a
mood and not of habit. They had to do with the
gay vocalist who drew his horse up in front of her
and relaxed into the easy droop of the experienced
rider at rest.

“Don’t see me, do you?” he asked,
smiling.

Her dark, level gaze came round and met his sunniness
without response.

“Yes, I see you, Tom Dixon.”

“And you don’t think you see much then?”
he suggested lightly.

She gave him no other answer than the one he found
in the rigor of her straight figure and the flash
of her dark eyes.

“Mad at me, Phyl?” Crossing his arms on
the pommel of the saddle he leaned toward her, half
coaxing, half teasing.

The girl chose to ignore him and withdrew her gaze
to the stage, still creeping antlike toward the hills.

“My love has breath
o’ roses,
O’ roses,
o’ roses,”

he hummed audaciously, ready to catch her smile when
it came.

It did not come. He thought he had never seen
her carry her dusky good looks more scornfully.
With a movement of impatience she brushed back a rebellious
lock of blue-black hair from her temple.

“Somebody’s acting right foolish,”
he continued jauntily. “It was all in fun,
and in a game at that.”

“I wasn’t playing,” he heard, though
the profile did not turn in the least toward him.

“Well, I hated to let you stay a wall-flower.”

“I don’t play kissing games any more,”
she informed him with dignity.

“Sho, Phyl! I told you ’twas only
in fun,” he justified himself. “A
kiss ain’t anything to make so much fuss over.
You ain’t the first girl that ever was kissed.”

She glanced quickly at him, recalling stories she
had heard of his boldness with girls. He had
taken off his hat and the golden locks of the boy
gleamed in the sunlight. Handsome he surely was,
though a critic might have found weakness in the lower
part of the face. Chin and mouth lacked firmness.